Hunter scanned the menu. “Here, what about the sautéed mixed vegetables and some, ah, julienned potatoes?”
Two side dishes. “Fine.”
Pascal returned to recite, in a bored, distracted voice, the roasted duck and turnips, parsleyed veal, and braised rabbit with mustard and calvados. He said all the names in French, slowly, and gazed at us challengingly, as if daring us to request a translation.
I gestured for Hunter to go first. He considered things for a moment. “Is the Ragout de Lapin good?”
“Excellent.”
“I'll have it.”
“Very good, sir. And for Madame?”
I examined my limited options one last time. “I suppose … I guess … I think I'll start with the cream of sorrel soup, and then when my husband is having his main course”—I couldn't bring myself to say “rabbit”—“you can bring me the, um, sautéed baby artichokes.” I closed my menu and handed it to Pascal.
“And that will be all, madame?”
I met his gaze. “That will be all.”
“Perhaps, if I may suggest, the shrimp and eggplant tart?” In case I had been intimidated by the lack of English translation, I suppose.
“No.”
“The mushroom and prosciutto toast?”
“I'm a vegetarian.”
“Ah. Aha. I understand.” His tone implied that, in his opinion, I was suffering from a self-inflicted disease. “Do you wish the soufflé for dessert?”
I wished to leave as quickly as possible. “No, thanks.” Pascal looked at me as if he were planning to spit in my soup. Then he gave Hunter a sympathetic little nod, and went off to tell the chef to stick a little bunny corpse in the skillet.
And then we were alone together, Hunter and I, and I realized that the evening had acquired a kind of portentous heaviness. The low murmur of the other diners seemed to fade away. The clink and chime of glasses and cutlery was replaced with the pounding of my heart.
“Abra,” Hunter said, making a helpless little gesture with his hands. A how-can-I-put-this gesture.
I wanted to stop this. What ever this was. “You're not going to propose, are you?”
Hunter dipped his head and then looked up at me, a rueful light in his dark eyes. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Propose something. Ah, Christ, Abs.” Hunter took a swallow of his gin and tonic. “You must have noticed I'm not very happy.”
Striving for composure, I found my professional you-have-several-treatment-options voice. “Is it the writing?”
“It's work, in part. I haven't figured out the exact story I'm going to do, but Christ, Abs, I found something back there, in the Transylvanian Alps.”
“Not a werewolf, I assume.” Ha, ha.
Hunter did not smile. “If you feel you have to make a joke out of everything—”
“No, no, I was just teasing. Start again. You said you found something …”
“Well, you know the woman I was working with, Magdalena Ionescu. The wolf researcher. Born right near the forest, totally untraveled outside of Eastern Europe, but so smart about the wolves—Abs, the time I spent tracking with her was like nothing I've known. She was like—she was almost animal in her instincts. Uncanny.”
My mouth went dry. Why had I thought Magda too old to interest Hunter? “She's the one. Oh, God, why are you telling me this here? So I won't make a scene?”
Hunter took in the look on my face. “Oh, Christ, Abs, it's not that. Yes, I slept with her. Yes, she made a big impression on me. Changed me. But I'm married to you. I love you.”
“Tell me what you have to say.” I was holding on to my diamond wedding band as if it might be pulled off by a sudden howling tornado. By what ever Hunter would say next.
Hunter leaned forward. “Abra, when I say she changed me … Christ, I don't know how to explain this so it doesn't sound like I'm mad.”
“It's the lycanthropy virus, isn't it? She infected you.”
I'd surprised him. Maybe even shocked him. “How did you—”
“Malachy Knox. My former teacher. He was doing research, and he knew about your trip. But Hunter, I'm not sure I really understand what this means.”
Hunter was silent for a moment, as if mentally rewriting a prepared speech. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little urgent. “Here's the thing. You have to have a genetic marker, passed down on your mother's side. There's no reliable test, but one thing Magda said was a likely indicator was schizophrenia in the mother's line. When the virus is introduced into an individual with the right genetic makeup, it can create a complete realignment on the cellular level.” Hunter gripped my hands. “Do you understand what that means, Abs? I don't have to worry about developing my mother's illness anymore.” He took a breath. “I don't have to worry about going mad.”
The mitochondrial DNA, I thought, passed down the mother's line. But Malachy hadn't suggested that inoculation with the lycanthropy virus might be a cure for anything, let alone schizophrenia. Striving for composure, I extracted my hands from his and took a sip of my champagne cocktail. “So what happens now?”
Hunter tossed back the rest of his drink, then signaled the waiter to bring another. “I don't know yet. It varies from individual to individual. Most people just develop a few lupine characteristics—improved hearing, a keener sense of smell, some muscular and skeletal rearrangement.”
“Copious body hair?”
Hunter ignored my feeble attempt at humor. “Magda says that full body morphing is very rare. In her family, she's the only one who can do it. But I can already feel the difference in me, Abs.” He leaned backward, his arms along the back of the chair. I could see a businessman staring, and I thought: I can see the difference, too. You've lost your mind.
“So you think there's a possibility that you'll be able to change into another shape?” I used my best professional voice, the one that revealed absolutely nothing of what I was thinking or feeling. “A wolf shape?”
Hunter seemed so excited I half-expected him to jump out of his seat. “It's a slim chance, but yes, that's what I think—hope—might be happening to me.”
I drank down the rest of my champagne cocktail too quickly, swallowed the wrong way, and started coughing.
“You all right, Abs?”
I nodded, still coughing. As I used the corner of my linen napkin to wipe my streaming eyes, I sorted through possible responses to Hunter's pronouncement. My first instinct was to find a politic way to suggest seeing a psychiatrist. Assuming that there was a politic way to suggest seeing a psychiatrist. Maybe I could ask Lilliana for a referral. But then I thought about what Malachy had told me in his lab. I wasn't going to buy the idea that a human could shapeshift until I'd observed it in a controlled experiment, and then had someone else repeat the experiment to verify results. But still, the whole idea of recombinant DNA had sounded pretty far-fetched until someone had succeeded in getting human genes into bacteria and producing insulin in a petri dish. What ever else might prove to be true, I had to accept that my husband had caught a rare virus, and that its effects were not fully understood.
And then another, more disturbing possibility intruded.
“Can I catch it? What happens if you don't have the right genetic makeup and you're exposed?”
“Oh, baby.” Hunter reached out and took my hand in his. “Nothing happens. Nothing happens to ninety-nine percent of the people who are exposed to the virus. And it's not contagious unless it's active in your system, and you're in wolf form. I don't even know yet if anything will happen to me.”
The waiter brought Hunter's second drink, and Hunter gulped it down as if it were water. “Ah, Abs, I wish you could have seen the Carpathian Mountains. But I don't have the words. Here, it sounds ridiculous. Too sentimental. There, it seemed—it was all right to use words like ‘timeless' and ‘primal.' It wasn't forced. It wasn't false. There was a beauty to the landscape that made the heart lift. There was something almost supernatural about it—a magic of place. I would walk up
a rise and see the world falling away. I would put my hand on a tree so old it felt like it had a soul.”
“It sounds wonderful.” To my credit, my voice didn't crack.
“It was.”
There was a lull in the conversation, one big enough to drown in. I said nothing. Fear returned, raising the small hairs on the back of my neck. Someone, not Pascal the waiter, brought me a tray with my soup on it.
“Hey. Wait! Bring us this wine, will you?” Hunter pointed to a selection from the wine list. He'd already finished his second gin and tonic, and I thought: He's not just charged up. He's manic.
“So you want to go right back there? Is that it?”
Hunter tore off a piece of bread. I thought of that ridiculous commercial for a candy bar that suggested sticking the chocolate in your mouth whenever you needed time to come up with a story. Hunter crammed the bread in his mouth but spoke anyway. “I want to be in a place where I can fulfill what ever potential there is in me.”
I cleared my throat. “And exactly where do you find this kind of a place?”
“Magda says that wherever there are remnants of old forests, wherever there are still legends of beast men and magic, that's where I will have the best chance of becoming … complete. It has to be an old forest, and there has to have been a long history of humans interacting with the wild. She calls them borderline places … crossroads between more than one reality.”
Now my credulity was stretched past the breaking point. “I'm sorry, are you saying that magic is a catalyst for this virus?”
“Magda showed me that a belief in science and a belief in magic don't have to be mutually exclusive. There are just different kinds of truths, Abs. Old places—wild places—she says they can unlock things inside of us, just like art can. Or poetry.”
According to this version of reality, I understood, I was the passionless, literal geek, while Magda was the lyrical sorceress. I didn't bother trying to argue my case. Instead, I thought of Hunter hunched over the computer, passionately frustrated, and realized what his sudden sexual hunger had been. A tantrum. A venting of pent-up emotions that had nothing to do with me. My soup was growing cold; I stirred it, but couldn't force myself to taste it. “So you're leaving me for that woman. Magda.”
“No, Abs.” Hunter smiled, and for the first time in our relationship, I thought about his mother's mental illness, and how much of it she might have passed down to her son. “Right in Northside, where my family's house is, there's old-growth woods. And legends about werewolves dating back to the early settlers. Hell, some stories probably come down from the Indian tribes who lived there.” Hunter tore off another hunk of bread as Pascal the waiter arrived with the wine. Hunter continued his discourse, oblivious as Pascal went through the ritual of uncorking.
Visibly irritated by Hunter's disregard of him, Pascal poured the wine into my glass first. “Madame?”
“It's fine,” I said, barely tasting it.
“Great, thanks,” Hunter told Pascal, not looking up at him. Then he threw back half the goblet in one huge swallow. “Anyway, that's where I need to be.” Hunter leaned forward, fingers drumming on the table, longing, no doubt, for a cigarette to hold.
“In Northside? You want to live in that big old house in Northside?” I was still trying to get to the buried body in this conversation. He had given me the name of the other woman; he had told me he longed to be back in Transylvania. I couldn't quite believe that Northside and myself were anything but a poor substitute.
Hunter drank his glass of water down, audibly swallowing. I had never seen him display such poor table manners. As he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, I wondered how drunk he was.
“I don't want to work for Magdalena. In her territory, she's boss. I want to make my own way, Abra. And Northside is as good a place as any to start. Ever since he remarried and moved to Arizona, my dad hasn't spent any time there, and he says he'd rather have me looking after it than the caretaker he's got now. I can write there, and do research. I'll have space, and nature around me. And it's only two hours from you. We can visit each other.”
This, at least, made sense. I didn't entirely believe he loved me more than he loved this other woman who had so captured his imagination. But I did believe that he would not choose to be a follower, not even for love. I drank some wine, slowly. I wanted to slow Hunter down, slow everything down. The hum of other people's meals and lives and celebrations seemed to be growing louder. I took a deep breath. “When are you leaving?”
“I'd like to leave in a week.” Hunter paused, as if he'd just noticed that we were having different conversations. And that only his was happy. “Abs? Abs, why are you crying?”
“Because I thought you were leaving me.”
“Oh, sweetheart, no,” said Hunter, misunderstanding. “I'm not leaving you. This is just like one of my research trips. Except I'll be able to see you more often. Oh, Abs, come on, cheer up. I love you, woman.” He leaned across the table and kissed me on the lips. “Now, cheer up! I command you.”
“Oh, God, I'm sorry.” I started to laugh, tears still running down my cheeks. I never make scenes in restaurants. Well, except for that day. At first, the relief was so great that I felt a great surge of appetite and began to eat my cold soup, started tearing great chunks out of the bread and stuffing them in my mouth. It was only afterward, when we began to discuss the details of his move over his rabbit and my artichokes, that I realized what had happened.
I'd been so braced for news of an affair, of some final break, that I'd felt relieved when Hunter had said that all he wanted was to move to Northside. And he, misinterpreting my tears of relief for tears of sadness, had tried to reassure me that we weren't really separating.
But the truth was, we were, because we would not be living together for some time. When a marriage is as generous with distance as ours had always been, it can be hard to distinguish a real parting of ways. But as Hunter and I went over the details of relocation—how much money was to be allocated for city expenses, how much for Hunter to purchase a car, and so on—it hit me that we were, in effect, negotiating a breakup.
I looked at Hunter, who had finished amputating the rabbit's leg and was now happily chewing on a chunk of its thigh. “I suppose we won't be seeing too much of each other over Christmas this year.”
“You'll get time off for good behavior, won't you? And we'll see each other most weekends.”
I didn't have most weekends free, though; I had only one day, at best. And I didn't have a car. The nearest train stopped forty minutes from Hunter's family's house. That made it an almost three-hour commute. One way.
Hunter reached for my hand. “You could always come with me.”
I felt as though I were having an operation and people were pretending my internal organs weren't hanging outside. “But I can't.”
“So we'll see each other whenever we can. Don't worry.” Hunter signaled Pascal the waiter for our check without asking if I wanted dessert. When we got home, I discovered that my mascara had smeared from crying, giving me raccoon eyes. Liquored up and elated over his new future, Hunter went straight to bed for a change and fell asleep almost instantly, facing the window, probably dreaming of escape.
At three A.M. I stopped watching him.
THIRTEEN
Once I admitted it to myself, it was all I could think about. My marriage was being restructured and relocated. My husband was letting me go. And while my moods were swinging wildly between depression and anxiety, I tried to act as though I were at peace with Hunter's decision.
I didn't want to drive him away any faster than he was already going.
Maybe it would have been better if I'd let myself rage at him, but I was too frightened. I don't fall in love easily. I don't even fall in like very often. And I'd given so much of myself to Hunter that I didn't know how much of me would be left when he was gone. I wouldn't even be able to console myself with sleep, the way other depressed people do. I would sit up with th
e furniture, watching my familiar things become shadowy and strange the way things do when you pass the witching hours of fatigue and solitude and are still awake.
And there was nobody to tell this to. My father, who remembered Hunter as a cocky twenty-one-year-old with a goatee and a lot of unexamined ideas about American cinema, wholly disapproved of my husband. It was the one thing he and my mother agreed on, although my father believed it was in poor taste to say anything more than, “Well, you know how I feel on that subject.” The way he said this, however, implied a loathing so deep and pervasive that it defied language. For a while, my mother tried imitating him, but then she couldn't stop herself from going on. And on.
As for female friends, well, I couldn't see turning to Lilliana. We had only been friends for a few months, but I could already tell that in Lilli's version of reality, men were easier to come by than career opportunities. My situation was a bit different. During my college and postgrad years, when most women meet more eligible partners than they will at any other time, I had encountered only three men who were interested in me: a brilliant math and music major with poor people skills, a good friend going through a bad time, and Hunter.
I couldn't confide in Malachy or Sam or Ofer, and Malachy, while he knew about my husband's exposure to the lycanthropy virus, was of questionable sanity himself. Too much time had passed to call my small crowd of high school friends.
I began trying to find a way out: There had to be a cure. Hunter had said, “You can always come with me.” But that wasn't a real option, not unless I wanted to give up AMI and everything that gave my life meaning.
Except for Hunter, of course.
The next day I called in sick and went to the bookstore. I was looking for An Answer, but of course there were lots of Answers: Letting Loose, Holding On, The Leap of Faith, Making Him Want to Change, Making Change Work, Changing the Way You Love, Understanding the Alpha Male.
I picked up this last, figuring it had been misfiled: Surely Alpha Males belonged in the animal category? Could there be a special self-help section for Women Who Loved Lycanthropes? According to this author, though, we were all animals.
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